Finding You Again
Chapter Seven
"I get in the car, another tragic disaster. But I'm safe where I am, yet another is captured. The traffic has stopped, the people just stare. Another alert, does the kid have a prayer? Life is not fair."
I Am One of Them by Aly & A.J. (Hollywood Records) from Into the Rush
15 YEARS AGO
BAYPORT
Joe Hardy was bored to tears when his brother's car squealed into the parking lot and he got out with Joe's wife, Vanessa. They saw the black van and headed to it. "The cops are on the way," Joe mouthed, and Frank nodded. Suddenly, someone stepped out of the shadows of the parking garage. For a moment, Joe froze, anger welling up inside of him. Al-Rousasa, the terrorist who had killed Iola…
But then he remembered that Al-Rousasa was dead. Maybe it was a double from the Lazarus Clinic. But no, they had been shut down for years. The Network had made sure of that. Besides, this man's face was leaner, and he had something besides maniacal desperation in his black eyes: the thirst for revenge.
"Joe Hardy, you killed my brother, Al-Rousasa. I am Al-Rohan, and now I kill you!"
"Noooo!" Joe barely heard the sounds of his brother and wife screaming their protest. The man had a bomb in the van, he realized.
"I love you," he mouthed to Vanessa.
The van was ripped apart by a terrific explosion. Before the bomb had completely went off, Joe felt rough hands grab him and drag him far, far away. Then everything went black.
PRESENT
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The driver of the limo had already entered the small, unimpressive building, leaving the two phony bodyguards to escort the two teenagers inside. Joline was trembling. She felt a large hand close around her upper arm as she was guided out of the limousine and toward the door. She saw Darren being dragged along beside her by the other man. The doors opened.
They stood in a gray, empty room. The men escorted their captives to a small, bland door with a number pad beside it. Carefully, they typed in a very long code. The door swung open. The prisoners were gently pushed inside. The door closed behind them and Darren wrenched his arm out of his guard's grip. The man didn't protest, and his comrade released Joline's arm. "Please continue walking," he said.
They were prodded through several security doors, with voice activations, code words, handprint keys, and more number pads. They walked down many flights of steps. Everything was gray. Even the little man that was sitting at the desk in the office they were finally shown into.
As the door shut and locked behind them, they finally got a good look at the person who had driven them. He had a tired, lined face. He looked as if he was about sixty years old, but still in great shape. Everything about him seemed unimportant and gray.
"Hello," said the man. "I am Arthur E. Gray. And you are in a world of trouble."
ONE DAY AGO
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Eric had his first mission. A man from a foreign country had hired this legendary branch of the Assassins to kill Phillip Walker.
He was excited. His first real assignment. Of course, if he failed, his brain would be fried by thousands of volts of electricity. But who was to say he couldn't survive it? He'd lived through the electric chair.
It didn't matter, anyway. He wouldn't fail. It was impossible for the greatest killer of all time to fail. He could do nothing but succeed.
He had arrived in Washington early this morning along with a handful of other travelers. He hadn't had any trouble being searched. Lower agents had already booked him three hotel rooms from which he could assassinate Walker. They were stocked with everything he'd need. He had nothing suspicious on him at all. All of the guns and bullets were hidden in the hotel rooms.
The first was a room in a small, grungy motel. It overlooked a street where Philip Walker was to be giving a speech about getting rid of America's poverty.
The second was across the street from Philip Walker's condo.
The third was overlooking the place where he would debate with his opponent. The opponent wasn't important to him. Only Walker mattered. And he would kill Philip Walker.
He decided to use his resources to get into a press conference that evening. Who knew what kind of man he would be ridding the world of? Eric wanted to know.
The man looked vaguely familiar. Why? Of course, Atol had showed him a clip of his speech.
But it was something more than that…
Eric turned around and found a stupid camera right in his face. He hated reporters and their stupid cameras. They made him very angry. He immediately shut out his anger. Anger was weakness. He was not weak. And so, he was not angry. Giving the reporter a frustrated glare, he turned on his heel and stalked off. He had to get some rest. For tomorrow, the Walker campaign would be over. For good.
~Emachinescat ^..^